A/N: OKAY, SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING IN A FEW DAYS, BUT HEYY, I'M GIVING YOU TWO VERY AWESOME CHAPTERS AT ONCE, SO THERE'S THAT. AWW YEAHH.
Nearing the end here pretty soon... this might be, what, 15 chapters or less? Yeah, I'm thinking so...
Anyway, please review~ ;D
Eleven.
A short week passes by. That's all it takes for Moira to arrange a chess game, buying a board herself and asking for a decent number of visitation hours for patients between the B- and C-Wings, and for Charles to come to more than one decision.
"Ah, thank you, Moira," Charles says warmly as he takes the box from her, plastic chess pieces inside of it jangling around, shifting and colliding with one another. It's music to his ears, almost as much as his typewriter. He misses using it; he wonders if, perhaps, he should write another memoir, one entirely about his currently life, just to have something to write… He clears his throat. "Oh, and, Moira? Might I have a word with you before you scuttle off?"
"Oh, sure! Of course, Charles. What's on your mind?" she asks brightly, pivoting and returning to him from the doorway.
"I… had been wondering a few things," he begins, peering down at the box as he sets the game aside. He takes her hands in his and looks deeply into her eyes, endless blue orbs meeting clear brown ones. No tricks, no mind-games; he wants to be open and honest with her. She deserves that much. "First of which being: am I correct in picking up your feelings for me? Do you… love me, Moira?"
She takes a sharp inhale of breath and removes her hands from his, choosing to clasp them together and wring them. Moira had worried that she was being too obvious, more-so than what saner people were picking up. But then again, the nurse thinks quickly, Charles is saner now, isn't he? He's in the B-Wing. She sighs, peering back at him. "Yes," she says faintly. She tires again, stronger this time. "Yes, I do. Nurses should never fall for the patients because it always ends badly, and – and I know that you feel something for Mr. Lehnsherr, but I – I couldn't help myself." She huffs a laugh and tacks some of her hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he says softly, smiling minutely and lightly touching her cheek with the barest of grazes as he sweeps back the chunk of strands she missed when pulling them behind her ear. He curls his fingers, fingertips skimming her ear as he finishes pinning her hair away from her face. She feels hot, his touch like calming fire. "No one can withhold their feelings for another, no matter who or what they may be. You aren't wrong in feeling something for me." He says. And then, with a joking smile, he adds, "After all, my charm can be overwhelming and addicting, can it not?"
Moira laughs, but tears are beginning to well in her eyes. Her heart strains beneath her sternum, and she idly places a hand atop her blouse, above her breasts. She can feel the thudding, the aching. She shakes her head. "It can," she agrees. She slowly exhales and dabs her eyes. "What a mess this is."
"Not at all," Charles contradicts smoothly. He ducks and tilts his head to remain in her gaze even as she's looking away. He replaces one of his hands over hers. "In fact, it's very helpful. You help me often because you love me, and for that, I am eternally grateful to you, Moira. There is just… one thing more of you I wish to ask. One final thing."
She looks at him, queries flickering in her eyes, and she looks desperate, as if she would be willing to do anything for him no matter what the cost. It makes Charles' own heart break a little. Because sometimes he doesn't like manipulating people, and the guilt is just around the edges, like the blurs around a dream.
He lowers his gaze to their hands, and he brings up his other hand to clench hers tightly, but not painfully. "Moira," he begins quietly, voice growing stronger as he lifts his eyes to meet hers once more. "I need you to help me to escape."
She immediately rips her hands from his again, but this time, there is shock mingled with horror and further questions written across her face. "You… you want me to what? But Charles, you're nearly there! You're in B-Wing, you can –"
He shakes his head sadly. "Moira. I know you're cleverer than that. You know all too well that I am not here because I progressed an inch; all I did was stop outwardly fighting. But inside, I have been fighting all along for freedom." He looks despairingly honest as his brows curve and lift, his precious blue eyes almost sparkling in the fluorescents as he starts to cry. And it's not an act; Moira has seen his fake tears before, and these are not them. They are pure and frighteningly heart-wrenching. His voice cracks as he tells her honestly, "I'm not crazy. Please, Moira, you have to believe me; I'm not insane. I am perfectly capable of being out in the world. I should have never come here, despite what I did. That was a moment of insanity, yes, but I am not insane now. What is deemed as delusions is something else entirely, I assure you. So please, Nurse MacTaggert, I beg of you: help me to escape. Help free me of this prison."
She stares at him for an immeasurable length of time before she finally inhales slowly and gives him a collected response. "…I will help you, Charles," she whispers. She offers a small smile. "Now then, why don't you head for the C-Wing and play chess with Mr. Lehnsherr? He's waiting, you know."
"Bless you, Moira," Charles utters sincerely, chuckling a bit as he grasps her hand, shakes it, and wipes his tears. "Surely you are an angel sent from Heaven for me. Bless you." And he leans forward, capturing her in a locking embrace before pulling back and kissing her forehead sweetly.
She could cry all over again. She doesn't know how she holds it in. Moira only knows that the man she fell in love with is thanking her after he asked for too much, and even though she knows she will be fired or worse over this (because Emma Frost is more forgiving than Sebastian Shaw, but not too much more forgiving that she would let this slide whatsoever), this close contact is reward enough for her misdeeds, she thinks.
-0-
"I'm moving up to the A-Wing. I'm going to be released soon, they tell me," Hank informs Alex where they sit side-by-side in the cafeteria for lunch. He rubs his hands together and exhales exaggeratedly. He shakes his head, brown hair flipping this way and that. He needs a haircut. "Are you mad?"
Alex grunts disjointedly. He refuses to look at Hank, even as he feels the slightly older boy's gaze on him. "Whatever. Do what you want, Hank. I can't boss you around or force you into doing shit just because I want you to." He rubs one of his eyes. He's not crying, not again. "So I'm not mad, no. I'm just kinda jealous and pissed off. And no, being pissed off isn't the same as being angry with someone. Being pissed off doesn't last as long, isn't as deep-seated. I'll stoop being pissed at you sooner or later. But being mad is like holding a mini-grudge against someone, and that just isn't me. Not anymore, anyway."
"Thank you, then," the other boy replies softly. He looks away. "Hey, Alex," he starts slowly, "Did you know what was my favorite subject in school?"
"That's a rhetorical question," Alex retorts. "So just answer it for me."
"I loved science. Biology especially, but chemistry was a close second. Everything about the science field – physics, astronomy, everything about the universe and how it works – fascinated me. I hardly cared about history or English or law or art or anything else normal kids liked. All I cared about was the science of it all. And do you know why?" Hank tells the other boy, and again, he's asking rhetorically. As he glances at the blond, his heart skips a beat, because Alex is peering back with just as much attention as Hank is giving him. Hank blushes.
"…Does this have a point?" Alex says in the silence. "'Cause I still have yet to get food, and I'm hungry."
"Oh. Right. Sorry," hank apologizes, blushing redder. He looks down at his hands. "Well, um… I loved science because it explained things. It was complex. It held the structure of the universe together while at the same time, dissected the universe for better understanding. It was my religion. It was what I believed in. Science was… constantly advancing and changing, but it still always made sense. And that's why I loved it: it helped make everything comprehensible, even when my life was messed up or hitting a rough patch or tearing apart."
Alex looks at Hank in a new light, and it makes Hank's blush flare back up after having left during his speech. And then the blond has the gall to go and say, "So is that what you're going to do once you're released? Make sense of the world by going back to school, to college, and studying the sciences?"
The brunet boy nods. "Yes. But there's something I want you to know, Alex."
"Eh? And what's that?" Alex snorts, reclining back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.
Hank looks dead serious as he tells his friend: "Science has yet to rule out other realities and dimensions and parallel universes. The ideas started as theories, and they remain as theories for the time being, but it's possible that some special case of proof will come along sooner or later and make those theories into theorems." He rubs his hands together again, nervously speaking his next words, "I'm not saying Charles is right or sane. I'm not saying that my belief in the chances being slim to none that we are mirrors of some other existence has changed; but… I am saying that you shouldn't lose faith, Alex. Especially not in a friend you plan to escape with. And I think…" He smiles oddly, looking down at the lunch table. "I think you should give yourself and Charles a chance to get out of here and either prove the theories or at least find a better life in place of them. Because I… I want you to have a better life, Alex."
"Okay," Alex says, fully understanding. He places a hand over Hank's in Hank's lap. The brunet's heart thuds in his chest as their eyes meet, and Alex has a teeny smile on his thin lips. "Thanks, Beanstalk. For everything."
And Hank can only laugh, breathless and awkward, and feel his insides bubble giddily as Alex returns the laughter. And soon Hank is by himself at the table, Alex in the lunch line to get food, and Hank is left to wonder: did he reap the seeds of doubt in Alex, or sew in new ones?
-0-
Moira, Azazel, and Angel; three people, through the link of others, whom Charles can trust to get him out of this psychiatric ward safely, with at least three others in tow. He's planning for the escape to be this weekend, when the staff is minimal and Emma is most distracted by the weekly wrap-up reports and her own impatience for the days to end so she can go out on some date or to some place or another for some stress-relieving, drunken fun (and sex, most likely).
He marches down the hallway, game box under his arm, and stops before Erik's door. It's open, a guard nearby ready to lock it again, and Charles salutes the man with two fingers before smirking and heading inside.
Erik is seated at a small card table, but it will suit this purpose just as well. The guard locks the door, walks away, and Charles sets the box on his chair as he removes his jacket and places it on the back of the chair. He takes out the chessboard, unfolds it, and sets up the cheap plastic pieces.
"They're letting you wear your own clothes again?" Erik inquires with a smile. He's still confined to pajamas, but they are least his own pair, since the C-Wing allows that much.
"Yes. My 'progress' in B-Wing is that far," Charles says with a smile. "And Moira just agreed today to help us escape. And that would make all three that we needed ready and willing for our plan to take action. With Hank being released soon, he doesn't wish to tag along, but I still have Sean and Alex on my side as far as I know, and therefore, the plan can be activated. We can escape this weekend, perhaps on Saturday evening, around mealtime," he relays as he sits down and moves his first pawn.
Erik's return grin couldn't be more delighted or mischievous. "Exceptional." He moves his own pawn, and watches as Charles moves another, and then Erik follows suit. "You, my friend, are a wonder."
But Charles doesn't miss the tweak in the former metalbender's smile, and worse yet, the shift in his eyes, a flash of suspicion, and the feeling of distrust that Charles senses from his lover make him feel ill.
Hesitantly, Charles moves his knight, his fingers lingering on the horse's mane before releasing the piece. "Erik, I haven't been entirely honest with you about myself."
"No, you really haven't, Charles," Erik answers darkly, his tone guarded. "Would you mind telling me who you really are?"
"I'm Charles Xavier, of course," he answers shakily, watching as Erik captures Charles' knight with his bishop, and Charles hadn't even noticed that the path was clear for that. Shit.
"No, I don't mean your fucking name. I mean your past, this past. Who are you, and what have you done?" Erik all but snarls, and Charles winces visibly.
He hangs his head, sighing. "I know. I know that's what you meant. Please, Erik, let me explain –"
"You had better!" the other man responds fiercely, pounding the weak table with a fist. He leans forward, and his face takes on a new expression than that of rage. "I want to believe in you, Charles," he says, brows inclined sincerely and his tone heartfelt. "I want to love all of you without being afraid of what you're keeping from me. I don't want to doubt you. I want to be able to trust you. So yes, please, explain, because I can't handle another fucking moment of people 'warning' me about you, and myself pondering you and your true intentions!"
Charles' mouth fell open at some point, and for a moment, he feel as though he might cry for a second time today. He inhales and exhales as carefully as possible, and he means to begin his tale, but instead, a questions slips out of his mouth too soon for him to catch it between his teeth. "Who has been warning you about me?"
Erik looks conflicted, face contorting, and then he drops his gaze with a disgusted click of his tongue. "Tch. That bastard, Shaw; that's who. I saw him last week, and he made me question you when I didn't want to. I hate him. He threatened you. And he threatened me by using you. He essentially said that I shouldn't listen to a thing you say." When his eyes reconnect with Charles', the intensity and bizarre clarity of his gaze nearly stops Charles' heart, and it definitely makes his breathing cease for a short minute. "Which means you had better quell my fears, Charles. You had better give me reason to listen to you, because I don't want to believe his words. I want to believe yours. I want to be on your side, never his. But I can't unless you start telling the truth. The whole truth."
Charles closes his eyes, tears trickling down and splashing on the table. He inhales shakily, sucking the air in as if it were his last breath, and flicks his king, toppling it. "Then we best save this chess game for another time. Because what I have to tell you, the parts of me I have to show you… They aren't conducive to playing chess. They will distract too much from the game. Thus, for now, I am surrendering."
The taller man nods, accepting this. He stands and moves to his bed, sitting down on its more forgiving surface than the stiffness of his chair. He gestures for Charles to join him, and then crosses his arms over his chest. "Start talking."
Charles sighs. He sits down and fiddles with the bottom of his vest, eyes trained to his hands as he bares his sins to the man he trusts with his life and his heart. "It began, I suppose, when I was seven years old, and we had a man visit the house, telling us that my father was KIA."
"Killed in action?" Erik murmurs. "What did he do for a living?"
Charles smiles sadly, eyes briefly panning upward before dropping back down. "He was a police officer, and a damn good one. I held so much respect for him and the work he did, catching bad guys and helping lock them away. He was tough and yet kind. He was a great father when he could be one, and a great officer when he wasn't. He didn't come home very often; he was on the main force for my hometown near the city. New York City, that is," Charles explains. He lifts a hand to rub his brow. "It was a sunny day. Too sunny. I wish it had been raining, or even storming. I wish it had been nighttime. Anything darker than the unfittingly sunny day that it was when the man came. He had been my father's partner. They were friends. And it crushed him to deliver the news to us."
Erik sinks against the flimsy wooden headboard of his ward's twin-sized bed and hugs his own arms, steeling himself, preparing to hear the worst.
And what he hears he honestly had expected, not to come from someone as endearing and charismatic as Charles Francis Xavier. Such a past… Erik expects of someone like himself, but of Charles? Insane or not, nothing could ready him for all that he is about to absorb into his memory.